Twenty-Nine
“No
one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected.”
Julius Caesar
My
graduation and return to OCS was only a few short months away. With a light
class schedule and NROTC duties winding down, I kicked physical training into
high gear once again. I had learned my lesson from the previous year though; no
running in boots or while wearing a backpack, get plenty of rest, and avoid
overtraining. My first date with Elizabeth had gone surprisingly well, and I
started seeing her on campus often, also realizing that she was one of the
hundred or so students in my Astronomy class. She became a frequent visitor to
the armory, hanging out in the lounge and studying until I could break free.
Very soon it was like I had known her all my life. On the day of graduation at
Chapel Hill, the other Midshipmen in my class gathered with their friends and
family in front of the armory for the commissioning ceremony. The oath of
office was administered to each in turn, and I watched as they pinned on the
single yellow bar on each shoulder that designated them as an officer. My commissioning ceremony would have to wait
until later in the summer after successful completion of OCS. It was painful to
watch them become officers while I remained a Midshipman, but I was happy for
them. We had studied, struggled, and trained together for four years, and they
had earned this day. Most of them would go on to successful, distinguished
careers in the Naval Service. Chris and I returned to our apartment, packed up
our stuff, and moved out. He returned to his Stanly County home to search for a
job in that area, and after a short stop at the farm, I left for the Marine
base in Quantico. Over the four years at UNC, Chris had gone from being one of
many good friends in high school to my absolute best friend. I felt he had
become the brother I never had. Always encouraging and supportive, he had wisdom
beyond his years that helped me through hard times and setbacks. He also had a
joyous enthusiasm for adventure and fun that inspired me to live each day to
the fullest with boldness. I would miss him dearly. I was confident that as
adults we would eventually settle down near each other and our families would
be as close as we had been during our years at Chapel Hill. We agreed to meet
up next time I was home at the end of July.
I
packed up and left for Quantico, stopping at the NROTC unit in Chapel Hill to
take care of some administrative issues. During my short visit, I had the
opportunity to meet Marine Colonel (later General) George Walls, who had
recently arrived as the Commanding Officer. Walls had served as a lieutenant in
Vietnam around the time of my birth and had joined the Marines despite facing
challenges due to his darker skin tone. Our conversation was brief, but I was
immediately impressed by his demeanor. He exuded a strong sense of confidence
and professionalism, yet remained approachable and genuine, unlike some other
officers I had encountered. He was exactly the type of officer I aspired to
become.
As
I drove my beloved Camaro towards Quantico, I felt less apprehensive than the
previous summer. I knew what to expect and had confidence that I would graduate
and be commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in a few short weeks. After showing
my ID card at the gate, I continued down the lonely stretch of road towards the
OCS compound. As I passed by the White Elephants and Bobo Hall, I couldn't help
but remember the pain and heartbreak I had experienced in that area. I parked
in the designated area for candidates, shouldered my sea bag, and made my way
across the parade ground to the OCS barracks. The distinctive smell of the
barracks, likely from the rubber flooring in the stairwells, triggered memories
and emotions. I took a few deep breaths and reassured myself that I was
prepared. Soon, the OCS show would begin, with the Platoon Sergeants playing
their roles as tormentors to perfection. The wide-eyed candidates would be
thrown into a flurry of confusing and often impossible assignments. Word spread
among the platoon that I was a "retread," someone who had been
injured the previous year but given one final chance to become an officer.
While my situation was rare, it was not unheard of, and I was sought out for
guidance on what to expect and how to navigate the environment. I offered some
standard advice, such as "stay off the skyline," "obey the
Platoon Sergeants instantly," and "don't do anything stupid." I
respected the process and did not offer anything that would give an unfair
advantage. The last thing I wanted to do was to serve with some Lieutenant that
didn’t deserve to graduate OCS and only succeeded because I had short circuited
the intricately designed screening program. “You can’t be the few and the proud
if you let in the many and the weak.”
The
course passed swiftly. Although
the physical training was still intense and exhausting, it was manageable. The
summer weather in Quantico was hot and humid, and the strenuous physical
activity posed a risk of heat stroke. We typically did the most demanding
physical training in the morning, before the heat became unbearable, but even
then, the air could be stifling. It was similar to the North Carolina heat I
was accustomed to, so it wasn't too much of a problem for me, but other
candidates were not as fortunate. Heat casualties were a common occurrence, and
the Corpsmen would prepare tubs of ice water near the training area to quickly
cool down overheated candidates. Becoming a heat casualty was a fast track to
being dropped from the program as "not physically qualified" or NPQ.
Two documented incidents were all it took for the Corps to determine that even
though a candidate might be a great person, they would not be able to withstand
the physical demands of intense activities in the tropical climates where
Marines often operated. An additional humiliation was that being a heat
casualty carried the stigma of having a "rectal rocket" thermometer
used, as temperatures taken in that manner were considered the only accurate
way to determine if someone needed immediate medical attention. The academic
and military skills curriculum was a breeze for me, as I had previously trained
younger Midshipmen on the subjects the year before. The drill instructor's
taunts and insults, meant to expose any weaknesses or lack of self-control,
were now just part of the routine. The long days of physical activity,
including running, marching on the blacktop, training hikes with packs, and
hours of standing at attention and parade rest, did cause some discomfort in my
feet, but my previously injured leg did not bother me at all. The feet aches
could certainly be tolerated until graduation. I continued to press forward,
steadily completing the events and requirements of the program.
One
of the challenges that candidates must master is a series of tactical
problem-solving exercises. In these exercises, small groups of four are
provided with basic materials such as rope, poles, and ladders and given a
mission. The mission typically involves a rescue or a situation where the group
must use the materials to come up with an innovative solution to save the lives
of Marines or civilians. After completing an afternoon of these exercises, a
truck arrived and we were instructed to get in the back. This truck, known as a
"5 ton," was a massive machine weighing over 22,000 pounds. We
appreciated the small comfort of a ride and climbed up the rear of the truck to
the cargo area, settling in on the narrow wooden benches for the short ride
back to the compound. Upon reaching our destination, we gathered our backpacks
and strapped them on before getting out. It was standard practice to lower the
tailgate for safety, as it reduced the distance to the ground. However, someone
in a waiting group of Platoon Sergeants yelled at us to hurry up, so we skipped
lowering the tailgate and instead climbed over it and jumped the 5 feet or so
to the blacktop below. This was a clumsy task, as we had to carry a backpack,
helmet, and rifle, as well as wear a web belt and suspenders. The belt and
suspenders, also known as "782 gear," were likely the inspiration for
Batman's utility belt, as they contained various helpful items. The back of the
belt held a personal first aid kit and a pouch for carrying a poncho, while
canteens filled with precious water were attached to the sides. Any remaining
space was usually taken up by ammunition cartridges or other miscellaneous
pouches. As I climbed over the tailgate and jumped out, something on my 782
gear caught on the truck. It quickly released, but the split-second hang caused
me to lose my balance and I landed flat on my left foot. I felt a brief flash
of intense pain and shuffled on to the formation. I knew immediately that a
bone in my foot had broken, and I hoped no one had noticed me stagger after the
fall. We were dismissed to the barracks to clean weapons before marching over
to Bobo Hall for dinner. By the time I returned to the barracks after the meal,
my foot was swollen and throbbing. Now within a couple weeks of completion, I
considered the events and tests remaining, wondering if there was any way I
could make it to the end of the program. Despite exhaustion, sleep didn’t
easily come when the lights finally went off that night. The next day, we were
scheduled for a short PT session and then classroom instruction. My foot had
swollen overnight, and I quickly attracted attention as I limped along. A Corpsman
was summoned, but to my surprise there were no taunts or insults this time from
the Platoon Sergeants. The Corpsman quickly recognized the injury, and I was ushered
into a van that would deliver me to the familiar Naval Hospital on the other
side of the base. A few hours of waiting, and an X-Ray confirmed what I already
knew. There was a complete break in the third metatarsal bone of my left foot. Feeling
defeated and hopeless, I realized I had failed again. The doctor applied a plaster
cast, and I was issued a pair of crutches. Downtrodden and full of gloom, I
returned to the barracks. The next day, I stood on the sidelines and observed
as the rest of the candidates completed morning physical training. I attended
classes as scheduled and was told to report to the Company Commanding Officer
(CO) at the end of the day for what I expected to be a final dismissal from the
program. Reporting as ordered, I entered the Major’s office. He offered me a
seat, and then explained the situation to me in a straightforward,
professional, and surprisingly understanding voice. With my foot broken, I
couldn’t run or march, and there was no shame in deciding that being a Marine
officer wasn’t the right path for me. He asked if I was ready to go home. I
told him that there was no way I was going to quit. If the official decision
was to send me home, I would respect that verdict and leave, but I wasn’t going
to voluntarily drop out of the program. I still very much wanted to be a Marine
officer, and after coming this far I knew I had what it took to be a good one.
A
few days later, I was summoned once again to the CO's office. He had discussed
my situation with Colonel Walls and they had come to a decision. Despite my
injury, I would be allowed to continue the course. However, I would not receive
any scores for the remaining physical events and would only be able to
participate in activities that did not require the use of my leg. Fortunately,
I had performed well enough before my injury that they were willing to give me
a chance. If my overall record at the end of the course met the required
standards, I would graduate. I was surprised to learn that I was closer to the
end than I had realized. The final week of training consisted of events and
activities, followed by a week of administrative preparations for our
transition from candidate to officer. We were fitted for uniforms and briefed
on the next steps in our journey. Finally, after what felt like a long journey,
Officer Candidate School was complete and I had passed. After the graduation
ceremony, I was placed on convalescent leave and allowed to return home to
heal. Once my cast was removed and I was medically cleared for duty, I would be
commissioned in Chapel Hill. From there, I was to immediately report back to
Quantico for further training and to begin my career as a Marine Officer.
